The elevator doors slid open with a cheerful ding that clashed violently with Luke's fraying nerves. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like angry wasps as he guided Iris's wheelchair down the too-bright corridor, his free hand clenched around the latest scan results like a lifeline. The papers had gone damp with sweat, the edges crumpled under his grip. Her shoulders felt frighteningly narrow beneath his palm, the sharp angles of her collarbones visible above the hospital gown's neckline—a stark contrast to the vibrant woman who used to drag him onto dance floors, laughing as she spun under his arms.
"Room 412," the nurse said, pointing with a pen before hurrying off, her sneakers squeaking against the linoleum. The smell of antiseptic and overcooked vegetables clung to everything, coating Luke's tongue with each shallow breath. Beneath it all lingered the sour tang of fear, his own or the hospital's, he couldn't tell.
Iris reached back to squeeze his hand as they entered the exam room, her fingers cold despite the stifling heat. "Stop looking like someone kicked your puppy," she teased weakly. The dark circles under her eyes undermined the attempt at humor, the purple shadows deeper than they'd been last week. She'd lost weight, too—her cheekbones sharper, her wrists too delicate where they poked out from the gown's sleeves.
Dr. Cho entered without knocking, her tablet glowing in the dim room. Luke's stomach dropped at her expression—that careful professional neutrality that always preceded bad news. The plastic chair creaked as he sank into it, Iris's fingers laced tightly through his, her nails digging into his skin just enough to ground him.
"The tumors have spread to your liver," the doctor said gently, turning the screen to show the ominous shadows blooming like ink stains across the scan. "At this stage, our focus needs to shift to—"
Luke stopped hearing. The medical jargon blurred into white noise as blood roared in his ears, his pulse hammering so hard he wondered if Iris could feel it where their hands were joined. His grip on hers must have become painful, but she didn't pull away—just anchored him as the room spun, her thumb tracing slow circles over his knuckles like she was the one comforting him.
A single phrase sliced through the fog: "Three months, with aggressive treatment."
The numbers hung in the air between them, obscene in their finality. Three months of stolen mornings. Ninety sunsets. Maybe one last birthday if they were lucky. Luke's vision tunneled until all he could see was the pulse fluttering at Iris's throat—the stubborn rhythm of a heart that refused to quit even as her body betrayed her. He remembered the first time he'd kissed her there, how she'd laughed and swatted at him, how alive she'd felt beneath his hands.
"—options for palliative care," Dr. Cho was saying when he tuned back in. The pity in her eyes made him want to flip the exam table, to scream until the walls shook. But Iris, always the stronger one, asked questions in a calm voice that didn't match her white-knuckled grip on the wheelchair arms. Luke cataloged each flinch she tried to hide, every suppressed wince as the doctor palpated her abdomen. His own body thrummed with helpless energy, muscles coiled for a fight with an enemy he couldn't punch.
When the nurse came to draw blood, Iris turned her face into Luke's shoulder, her breath hot against his neck. "Look at me," he murmured, cradling the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her curls. "Just look at me, sunshine." He told stupid jokes—the kind that used to make her groan and throw popcorn at him during bad movies—until the vials were filled, until her laughter wasn't entirely forced.
In the elevator down, Iris slumped against him, her energy spent. The parking garage smelled of oil and damp concrete, their footsteps echoing too loudly in the empty space. Luke helped her into the passenger seat with exaggerated care, buckling her in like something precious, his hands lingering on the strap as if he could will it to protect her from everything.
The drive home passed in silence, the city lights blurring outside the window. At a red light, Luke reached over to tuck a loose curl behind her ear, his fingers brushing the hollow of her cheek. Iris caught his hand, pressing a kiss to his palm before holding it against her chest where her heart beat its relentless tattoo.
Three months. Ninety days. Two thousand one hundred sixty hours.
The countdown had begun.